The Cold We Hate
by VioletzeEcoFreak
Summary: The North American Ice Storm of 1998, an indisputable example of the cold Canadians and Americans alike loathe.


_January 5__th__, 1998 _

Alarmingly, Canada was shivering. England looked at the boy sitting across the table, side-by-side with America, whose lips were turning blue and who was starting to shiver. For a moment England thought the boy was mocking him as he drew his arms against his torso. Really, it wasn't _that_ cold in the room, no matter how loudly America complained.

Except Canada would've just made a sarcastic remark, not start shivering and turning blue-lipped, and he genuinely looked uncomfortable. England was boggled. The northern Nation had always gloried in the ice and snow of his home, and the beginnings of cold weather in Ontario (or anywhere else, for that matter), brought only pleasingly flushed cheeks and bright, cold-stung eyes to the Nation.

"S-Sorry," Canada apologized softly. "I-I'll just go g-get a sweater on and be--be right back." As he stood up England could see the goose pimples on his bare arms.

"H-Hey, England?" America mumbled, "Can I put another log on the fire? Or turn up the thermostat? It's g-getting kinda cold in here." England couldn't feel the cold they were mentioning, but he nodded and pointed America to the metal box that held the firewood. The man already had a sweater on, and the sun beating down on Hawaii and other southern states, but he also didn't have the benefit of having much of the Arctic and the North Pole as part of his body, leaving him sensitive to the chill. Which left England wondering he couldn't feel the cold that was making his two boys so uncomfortable.

Canada returned wearing not only his thickest woollen sweater, but his winter coat as well. "Sorry," he apologized again. "There's probably another big cold snap somewhere or something. I'll be fine in a bit." He settled down into his seat again and tried not to be embarrassed that he was wearing heavy winter gear in England's rapidly warming room.

_January 6__th__, 1998_

The first meeting of the new year was to be held in London, doing much for England's pride, and while Canada and America had arrive for discussions a day earlier than the rest, the time for bilateral talks was over.

While America had felt chilled all morning, it was nothing to the cold Canada was feeling. It was torment to the northern Nation, who so loved the frigid weather he'd spent much of his youth enduring in furs and snowshoes. But this cold wasn't the familiar one of walking alongside General Winter, which settled around him like December snowfall. This was the bitter cold of wind chills and pelting hail and falling into water because the ice was too thin. This was the cold the Canadians had learned to hate, the one that Canada himself dreaded facing.

Sitting next to America on one side and Greenland on the other, he tried to focus on England's opening statements. However, the haze of exhaustion made it difficult for Canada to even look at England. All he wanted now was to rest. He felt his eyes droop as a curtain fell over his vision. He vaguely felt the sensation of falling, except that was just him falling asleep, wasn't it?

America noticed it first. "Matt?" he mumbled, shaking Canada's shoulder gently. When that didn't prompt an immediate response he shook harder, let his voice rise. "Wake up!" He didn't realise he was shouting until other Nations were there too, gathered around the young man who'd just passed out in a meeting.

It was America who laid Canada on the ground, holding the man's feet above the ground to coax the blood back to his head. There was a collective sigh when Canada's eyes fluttered open behind his glasses.

"What happened?" he mumbled feebly, trying to gather why he was on the ground, surrounded by Nations. Usually he wasn't noticed at all in these sorts of meetings.

"You fainted," England said, almost gently. He helped Canada sit up. "How do you feel now?"

"Nauseous," was the frank reply. He took on something of a greenish hue to accompany his blue-tinged lips. France and England helped him to his feet and guided him out of the room. "You can lie down for a bit on one of the chesterfields," England said. Canada smiled feebly and mumbled a weak apology. He was shivering again.

----

"Hey, Matt, are you feeling any better?" America asked when the meeting was given a fifteen minute dismissal. He tried to look at Canada, who was lying down facing the back of the sofa. Drawing nearer, he could see the Nation taking even, slow breaths. Asleep.

"Of course," he said softly, reaching out to take Canada's glasses off. He was startled at how unpleasantly cold his normally mildly cool skin felt. Setting the glasses on the armrest, America stood and shouted for England. "Are any of those knitted blankets you made here?" he demanded from across the room.

"Of course not!" England shouted back before attempting to return to his chat with Japan.

"'Cause Matt is way too cold, even for him!" That got England's attention. And France's. And Russia's. And Seychelles'. In fact, a great majority of Nations were now listening to the American, whether they were making it obvious or not.

"He can wear my coat!" Russia volunteered with a smile. Ukraine was quick to offer hers as well. France had gone so far as to remove the jacket of his suit, setting it over Canada's shoulders.

"It is already warm, and he will need it," France said in explanation when America gave him a funny look. If it wasn't for the fact America was experiencing an unpleasant chill he would've followed suit. There was no need, though, for between Ukraine's and Russia's winter coats Canada was well and truly covered. Under the mound of insulation and fur (both fake and real) Canada would definitely stay warm enough on that sofa.

----

Sometime after lunch Canada, still hazy with sleep, woke up. He peeled his cheek off the fabric of the sofa, sluggishly feeling the ridges that the seems had made, and tried to comprehend the gentle heaviness surrounding him. He was still cold, but the heavy feeling was easing that into something just short of bearable. Perhaps he could just fall asleep again…

The memory of the meeting, and the fact he was missing it, surged to mind. He couldn't just skip the meeting so he could get sleep, no matter how much he wanted it. Slowly, Canada sat up. He still felt nauseous, but now the nausea was tinged by hunger. A bout of shivers racked his body as the coats warming him fell off. Canada stared at them for a long moment, trying to guess whose they were. The scent of a floral, lingering cologne told him France's was among them, and one was long and lined with real fur, it had to be Russia's. The third looked like it was cut for a woman, and was also lined with fur. His slow mind managed to figure out it was Ukraine's.

Canada stood slowly and tried to gather up the coats, but his fingers were having trouble moving. Probably because they were so numb. Whatever was happening back home must've been awful. He'd have to check the news. Or perhaps the international weather report would be more appropriate. Once the coats were finally draped over his arm Canada walked towards the meeting room. When he pushed the doors opened everyone turned to look at him. He wanted to blush and apologize, but he found all he could do was bow his head and mumble.

"You look terrible," America observed with concern. Normally Canada would've retorted with a sarcastic "thank you" or other remark. But today he lacked the energy to snark. He held out the jackets.

"You still look cold, Matvey," Russia replied. "You can wear my coat for now." Canada nodded gratefully and slipped it on as France and Canada reluctantly took back their own. It felt awkward, wearing Russia's jacket, but the lingering hints of warmth were well worth the strangeness of it all. He took his seat again, to see all his papers and notes had been cleared.

"I'm taking notes for you, too," Finland said brightly from down the table. Canada thanked him and turned back to Sweden, who was mumbling his way through his piece. He was determined to stay awake through the meeting. To the surprise of many, Canada continued to shiver.

----

Canada had not expected to be taken to England's house when the meeting was over. He'd expected to be brought to a hotel to laze around in with America. Still wearing Russia's jacket, he sat down on England's armchair (at his insistence), while America flipped through the television channels, trying to find one for the weather.

"Give that to me!" England finally snapped. He snatched the remote. "Bloody hell, your hands are freezing," he remarked as he punched in the numbers. Just their luck, it was the local weather playing. As they waited England stood and said he would prepare something warm.

"Just tea," he promised at America's look of worry. For a few long moments the boy were left sitting in silence.

"I wonder if England still has that medical book," America pondered aloud. He stood and went to check, leaving Canada to observe what the weather in London would be like for the next week. (In a word: dismal.)

England returned first, handing a mug of tea to Canada before sitting down. Canada was still shaking, but he managed to hold back his shivering as he felt the heat from the mug bleed into his palms. He held it in front of his face, feeling warmth curl into his skin, especially in his stinging cheeks. It was a wonderful relief from the biting cold. Slowly, he sipped the drink. The hot liquid warmed his throat and insides, only for the cold to take over once again.

Desperate for more of the soothing warmth, Canada continued to down the tea, even as America appeared in the room with the thick medical book. His jaw was tightly shut, to prevent his teeth from chattering.

The three of them sat in the room in silence, waiting for America to find the page he was looking for or the weather news to show exactly what was happening in Canada.

"Hypothermia," America murmured, looking at the page grimly. He ran his fingers along some of the words. Shivering, numb extremities, exhaustion… all of Canada's symptoms checked out. So why was he cold as well? The news answered that.

An ice storm, the worst North America had seen in a long time, was trapped in northern New England and southern Ontario and Quebec. Heavy snow in the Maritimes and rain and flooding in the states. Trees and pylons being taken down everywhere. Barns collapsing. Cities calling states of emergencies. The weather had gone against Nations before, but this had to be one of the worst cases either of the North American brothers had experienced.

Canada's breaths were getting shallower and quicker as time went on.

_January 7__th__, 1998_

America was wearing his winter coat to stay warm, and doing a fairly job of it. Canada was wrapped in the thickest, warmest blankets in the house, laid out by the hearth. England was skipping the second day of the meeting, tending to his two boys.

Actually, America was getting along swimmingly. Now that he knew what was happening, he was back to complaining about the ice storm and making jokes and whining about when it would be over. It was Canada who was having a rough time.

America sat in front of the hearth as well, behind his brother, and was lazily tugging on his curls.

"It has to blow itself out soon," America mumbled, running a finger languidly down Canada's cheek. England took a spot next to him.

"Feeling any better?" he asked gently.

"Not really," America replied. Canada made a groan that served as a "ditto". A particularly violent shudder ran down his spine.

It must've been half an hour later when Canada lifted his head a little. "I feel warmer…" He set his head back down in relief. The storm must have broken.

"I don't," America replied, flexing his hand and trying to bring sensation back to them. "I feel colder." He stood and went to make something hot for himself and Canada.

"I want to go home," Canada whimpered. He curled in on himself. England reached out to touch Canada's face. He was turning pale white, as if a frightening thought had come to him.

"Canada," England said, trying to keep his tone neutral, "can you show me something? I want you to touch your little finger with your thumb." He bit his tongue and watched as Canada clumsily wriggled his hand out from the tight wrap of blankets. Try as he might, he couldn't press his fingers together. He let out a cry of frustration.

"Why?" he whispered hoarsely. "I can't even…" Another frustrated cry. England gathered the boy into his arms and tried to shush him gently. He didn't even have the energy left to cry. Just shiver violently as his fast, weak breaths continued.

_January 8__th__, 1998_

"If I'm going through s-stage one, Canada has t-to be in stage two," America said, going through the page on hypothermia again. The symptoms, once again, were all matching up. Violent shivering, muscle mis-coordination, pale skin, except for his bluish fingernails and lips. America tried to trace the paragraph on treatment, but he had hardly been able to control his hands at all the past two days.

"You have to eat," he told Canada, who was sitting at the breakfast table and just barely holding onto his fork. If it wasn't for the fact he'd lived almost his whole life with his brother, America wouldn't have recognised the pale trembling man in front of him. Canada looked like a ghost. He listlessly and clumsily pushed his food around his plate and ignored America's statement entirely.

"At least drink something," England asked, looking up from the book again. Canada's eyes flickered up and he looked baffled by the order. Hadn't he just…? The full mug of tea on the table was confusing, because hadn't he just finished it? "Listen," England said firmly, "the Canadian Forces have been deployed to help get things back in order, so you'll be all right in a short while. But you'll recover even faster if you eat and drink." Canada looked down again, then obediently drank the tea in the mug. He had since stopped craving the temporary warmth of hot liquids, as the cold following it always felt all the more bitter.

America swallowed the ill feeling sitting in the pit of his stomach and tried his best to enjoy breakfast. By the afternoon Canada couldn't walk at all without stumbling and seemed lost as to why he was always being told to lie down and rest.

_January 9__th__, 1998_

Things were evidently going to get worse before they got better. Canada had lost all use of his hands, and was being fed by England and America. Every so often they forced tea into him. He could no longer protest, his voice almost completely gone, but at least his shivering had stopped.

England sat down behind him again. He'd done that a lot since Canada had been laid in front of the fireplace again. He'd forgotten how many times he'd been moved, nor did he particularly care. By this point he was just trying to quell the irrational panic that was rising in his chest as England stroked his face. Slowly, the older man pulled him up again, holding the boy in his arms as he would hold a child. The tenderness of such an action stirred something in him. It took him more than a few moments to realise he wanted to cry. He couldn't of course, his tears were frozen somewhere inside him, and crying would mean losing heat, right?

He pressed his face desperately into England's warm chest, hoping to get the message across. He felt fingers pull through his long hair and knew that at least part of it had been.

"It won't last forever, Matthew," England murmured. Canada could hardly comprehend the words, but the soft vibrations of his voice were more soothing than the meanings could ever be. "Soon, you'll be back to skiing and skating and that horrible sport you call cross-country skiing." The arms tightened around Canada, and it quieted a little of the fear that had been rising in his chest again.

"Promise?" Canada croaked weakly. He was only half aware of what he'd said, but suddenly it was vital England gave his word.

"I promise," England assured, pressing his lips to the top of Canada's head.

_January 10__th__, 1998_

America dropped the mug of tea he had been carrying to the living room. Canada was not there. His blankets were there, in front of the hearth, but he was not. Two words came to mind. _Terminal burrowing_. The process in which a sufferer of hypothermia finds a small place to hide, in a misguided attempt to warm up.

No, he couldn't panic. If he panicked he would lose his focus, and he absolutely had to be focused. Ignoring the pounding in his ears, America shouted for England. "Matt's gone!" he bellowed, unable to keep worry from getting into his voice. England was there in a second.

"You search the rooms upstairs. I'll look through the rooms on this floor," he said efficiently, masking the dread he was feeling. Canada could be anywhere in the house, and they absolutely had to find him.

America ran up the flight of stairs, taking them three at a time, thankful for the adrenaline rush that was sharpening his senses and awareness. He tore up rooms searching for his brother, finding every nook and cranny he could think of where someone could hide. He moved like a man possessed, leaving a trail of overturned desks and half off doors in his wake. He could fix them later, finding Canada was all that mattered.

There were no words to describe the sweep of relief America felt when he found Canada curled up inside a wardrobe. He was completely unresponsive as America lifted his from the bottom of the wardrobe (oh God, he'd gotten so cold, so cold…) and when England wrapped him tightly in the still-warm blankets.

"A stupor," England said when America asked what was wrong. "Matthew's conscious mind has shut down, even if he's still awake. It's probably for the best, he's gone through enough as it is." He brought his hand through Canada's hair gently.

_January 18__th__, 1998_

In spite of all the work Canada was going through, there was no way to describe how wonderful it was to be on his own soil again. After his recovery in England's home he'd taken the first plane back to Ottawa to help with clean-up. It was a long business. Everywhere he looked there was damage from the ice rain (even the maple in his front yard had lost some significant boughs, much to his horror) and people were still going without electricity and there were still people dying of carbon monoxide poisoning and hypothermia.

It was only natural that, after a while, he would want a small reprieve from the depressing task of tidying his trees. So Canada went to a Quebec maple farm, where he'd once worked a winter gathering sap from the trees to make maple syrup. He loved the trees of his land, a great deal more than many Nations loved their own trees, but the maples had always been particularly close to Canada.

The farm was devastated, as was expected. Removing one of his gloves, Canada brushed his fingertips along the bark, feeling the tree's name reverberate through his fingers. He smiled faintly and brought his whole palm against it as his eyes slid shut. This was the cold he liked, the resting chill of the tree bark and ice and snow at his feet, and the muffled silence that only a cloudy grey sky could bring. This was the sort of cold he trusted and loved.

----

A/N: Another kink meme fill from this summer.

I researched my rear off when it came to hypothermia, so hopefully everything looks right (and be thankful there was no paradoxal undressing). And the ice storm. Although I didn't get to use it much I read a personal account of what someone said happened during the storm. And for the curious among you, the boys got this again in 2005 and 2007, although those times America took the brunt of it.

I clearly have a bias for Canada. I cannot be certain if this is a good thing or not.

Oh, and a huge thank you to Little Serge! You know what you did and I must tell you I dreamed I would one day end up on tvtropes for _something_. I didn't think I was nearly good enough for your rec., though!

To all the Canadians who went through this event, I salute you! I was only five at the time, and living somewhere here in Western Canada. Hopefully, I've done it justice.

Thank you for reading~


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